יום ראשון
We hover
like saucers above the potential created for our generation,
waiting for
God to give us permission to dip down and take a slice.
Our crops
and bodies begin to burn in this oven-planet
and flocks
of Money by billions, flap their papery wings and take off
Northbound, migrating into pixel’d flurries.
You and I
take my grandfather’s binoculars to behold the sight,
laying in the
grass, making love until an empty moon rises.
pouring silence
over everything.
